“There are moments in everyone’s life that define the type of person you are, and the person you will become,” or so my dad always says—used to say, I corrected myself, kicking at the pile of discarded clothes at my feet. Ugh, how do you pick the right outfit to wear to your own father’s funeral? The words clanked through my head like a roller coaster ratcheting up the track. This was a decision I could use my mother’s help with, but she had spent the past few days adrift in a medicated stupor. She collapsed at the hospital after the no-nonsense surgeon came into the waiting room, informing us that the internal bleeding from the accident was too extensive. His words instantly snuffed out all the hope and optimism we had been clinging to, and in one life changing-moment, my father was gone.
I could ask my grandma for help, but I couldn’t handle the way her eyes swam with tears when she looked at me. As it was, I already felt like I was hanging on to a sinking life preserver, without her dragging me down farther. Her pain was understandable. My father had been her only son. I considered asking my Aunt Donna since she stoically refused to cry, which would have been refreshing amidst the sea of tears that surrounded me, but even she had finally broken down.
Finally giving up, I pulled out the black eyelet ankle length skirt my mom and dad bought me when they spent their twentieth anniversary in Spain the previous year. The skirt brought back bittersweet memories for me. I was jealous when they planned their vacation abroad without me, but my dad pacified me by promising a month-long excursion across Europe once I graduated. That was my father. I could act like a jerk, but I was still daddy’s little girl. I swiped at the hot tears that trailed down my cheek, wishing I could somehow go back in time and take that moment back. There would be no take-backs, though. No second chances and no more plans for the future, only a yesterday full of memories. Gathering my wits before the sobs could over take me, I pulled on a black camisole and my favorite black loose weave sweater. My make-up, I kept minimal, not feeling up to putting in the effort I usually spent on my appearance. My dad would have been pleased. He had preferred the “au naturel” look, as he called it, always telling me, “You’re beautiful enough without all the extra junk.” My friends, on the other hand, would be horrified, but I couldn’t find the will to care. There were so many other important things that required my attention.
First and foremost being my little sister, Megan.
Megan had been a surprise addition to our family four years ago. I was twelve, almost thirteen, when my parents sat me down with the news that my mom was pregnant, that they had been trying for years to give me a sibling. New to the idea of where babies came from, I remember being appropriately grossed out at their phrasing of “trying for years.” Once my gag factor was under control, I was actually excited at the idea of having a real-life dress-up doll. That novelty was short lived though. After a few years, I realized that babies really didn’t do much and high school began to consume my life anyway. Megan proved to be a cute baby and an even more adorable toddler, but friends, cheerleading, and my new fascination with boys consumed my every waking moment. Megan would toddle around behind me, chanting my name in her cute little lisp as I fluttered around the house always on my way out the door. Except for the mandatory Friday family nights, which my parents insisted on, during which, I spent the majority of the time texting my friends, I had barely interacted with Megan over the last year. I regretted every single one of those texts now, yearning for just one more family Friday night.
As I left my room, I could hear the low mumble of my aunts talking while my grandma sobbed quietly behind the closed door of her guest room. I headed toward my parents suite and paused outside the door, knocking gently before entering. My mom was curled up on the side of the bed that my dad used to occupy. Her eyes were wide open and she was fully dressed, but she stared blankly into space, looking more lost than I had ever seen her. She was clutching my dad’s favorite shirt between her hands. The entire room was filled with reminders of her former best friend and true love: A closet filled with clothes, the remote control that sat on his nightstand because he loved to watch TV while lying in bed, and the familiar smell of his favorite cologne that still filled the room, all of which pinched my heart as I perched on the bed beside her. I reached over and gently grabbed onto her hand, yearning for her reassurance that everything would be alright, but her hand remained nothing more than a dead fish in mine.
“Are you going to get Megan ready?” I asked.
She finally pulled her eyes from the blank spot beyond, focusing on my face. Her body began to shake slightly as silent sobs turned to tears welling up in her eyes. Her grief caused my own pain to rear its ugly head. I jumped to my feet, not wanting to be sucked in. Someone had to remain strong here.
“Never mind, I got it,” I mumbled, exiting the room before the despair that growled deep in my stomach could claw its way out.
Megan’s room was several doors down the hall from mine. When she was three, Megan begged my parents for the room directly across from mine, but I balked at the idea of having her so close, feeling she would cramp my style. Yet another decision I wish I could retract.
Walking into Megan’s room was like stepping into the ultimate princess getaway. My parents let her re-do her bedroom on her fourth birthday. All her baby stuff was stored away and her room was completely redesigned to celebrate her new “big girl” status. The room was dressed in plush purple carpeting and soft pink walls adorned with pictures of fairies and princesses, and even her very own “Mirror Mirror on the Wall.” She bought her a beautiful sleigh bed made of mahogany with a matching wardrobe and highboy dresser, but what really brought it all together was an elaborate mural of a castle and its grounds decorating the eastern wall of the room. Megan absolutely squealed with delight when she saw it the first time, completely forgetting about her previous desire to inhabit the room closest to mine.
She was still in her nightgown when I entered, sitting in her reading corner with one of her favorite chapter books resting on her narrow knees. Megan was gifted in reading, devouring anything she could get her hands on and could already read at a fifth-grade level. Keeping her in age appropriate books proved to be a challenge. The shelves in her room overflowed with books that I could remember reading when I was much older.
“Hey, Peanut,” I said, sinking onto the foot of the velvet plum-colored chaise lounge were she perched.
Her slender shoulders stiffened at my words, but her gaze remained fixated on the pages in front of her. I cringed at the glaring dark bruise on her forehead and her white plaster encased arm, all evidence of the traumatic experience she had been through. The hospital could have at least given her pink or some other colored cast.
“It’s time to get ready,” I said, stroking her hair.
She acknowledged my words by closing her book and studying me with solemn eyes.
“Do you know what today is?” I asked quietly.
She nodded without speaking.
Megan hadn’t uttered a word since the accident, but no one has seemed to notice except me. I missed her cute little lisp when she called me by a nickname she had coined for me when she was younger. She couldn’t say Kassandra, so I became Kass, Kass to all the members of my family.
“Are you hung
ry, Peanut?” I asked as I pulled a light pink dress over her head.
She shook her head ever so slightly.
“Are you sure? Not even a peanut butter and strawberry sandwich?” I enticed, naming one of her favorite treats. Her passion for peanut butter was a longstanding joke in our family and was how she had gained her nickname.
She shook her head again.
“What about an ice cream sundae with melted peanut butter on top?” I said, willing to offer anything to get her to come out of her shell.
She remained silent and I sighed with resignation.
“You have to eat, Peanut,” I said, running a brush through her long golden locks before fixing it into a French braid down her back the way she liked. I helped her strap on her black Mary Janes and grasped her small hand as we left the room together.